


Alphabeta (Lover's Language)

by acareeroutofrobbingbanks



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: (but not like you think i promise), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Crack, F/M, Fluff, M/M, No Sex, a/b/o technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-04 21:43:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16797613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acareeroutofrobbingbanks/pseuds/acareeroutofrobbingbanks
Summary: Pete has friends who have the Alpha/Omega gene, but he's never been attracted to someone with it.And then there's Patrick, with his sweat and his hands and his stupid Alpha pheromones and. Well. Pete's never been good at not falling in love.





	Alphabeta (Lover's Language)

**Author's Note:**

> i never ever thought i'd write an a/b/o fic but I had An Urge.

Pete was the kind of kid who always dreamed of being extraordinary. Sitting in the back of all his classes, gazing out the window and dreaming of being famous, he wanted to be different. Special. Except, he decided, in regards to the A/O mutation.

The first time Pete saw someone in heat was his freshman year. His friend, Micah, was sleeping over, the two of them eating their way through family-sized bags of chips and drinking gallons of soda on the floor of his living room when Micah stopped eating, started to fidget. He leaned back so that he was sitting on his heels, and started to breath heavy. Eventually, Pete turned the TV down and asked him what was wrong.

“I feel… weird,” Micah said, and his eyes rolled back into his head, only whites showing. Sweat broke out on his skin, and he started rutting against the air. Pete shouted Micah’s name a few times, and when he didn’t respond, he ran for his mom.

Thankfully, she had the sense to call his mother rather than an emergency room, though by the time anyone showed up, the kid’s pants were damp, front and back, and he was letting out a fairly continuous groan. Pete was disturbed, and his mom took him aside and explained what it was to go into heat.

“Your friend Micah,” she said, “Has the recessive omega gene. Nothing’s wrong with him, he just has, well, very specific cycles for reproduction. Not like the rest of us. Most people, people like us, can have sex or become aroused at any time. But at certain points in time, people like him go into heat, and their body craves sex. The release a lot of pheromones, and have some various other physical reactions to attract an _alpha_. He’ll be fine, but it’s a very personal experience, and you shouldn’t mention it to anyone at school.”

Pete knew the last part, at least. He wasn’t idiotic enough or mean enough to tell other high schoolers that Micah came in his jeans. But that wasn’t what concerned him.

“You promise that’s not gonna happen to me?” he asked.

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” his mom laughed. “You, your father, myself, we’re all betas. We have the kind of sex you learn about in health class. And see on the internet, without clearing your history,” she added, and Pete blushed, and his anxieties were quelled.

But, even though he wanted no part of the Alpha/Omega dynamic, he thought about it. Sometimes.

Patrick Stump was a spitfire, angry and brash and the one person in the world who didn’t give a damn who Pete was unless Pete was going to write a decent fucking bassline, for once. Also, Pete was a little bit madly in love with him, from his ancient Converse to the fluffy hair on top of all five feet and four inches of him.

Pete suspected Patrick knew, from the sly smiles he shot Pete’s way, but there was no way to confirm a thing like that without doing something horrible, like confessing his love to Patrick. Out of the question.

So rather than dating, they existed in a state of semi-permanent animosity. They shouted at each other over everything from lyrics to pizza orders, and while Patrick was smaller than Pete, he was fierce and a dirty fighter, so when it got physical (as it always did) Pete lost as often as he won, nearly always with teeth marks on his skin to show. Pete thought it might not just have been him, because Patrick and Joe fought a lot too, notably ending once in Patrick pissing his initials onto Joe’s bed after Joe made fun of them spelling out PMS.

“PMS,” Joe muttered under his breath. Pete could only tell by the white caste of his knuckles how fucking furious he was while he carried sheets from his bedroom into the tiny washer they had in the mudroom. “Speaking of PMS, you’d think someone’s having their special time of the month.”

Pete really hadn’t thought about that.

Alphas and Omegas, as a general rule, didn’t really talk about it. Sure, loads of dudes insisted at the bar that they were alphas, but (thankfully) most of them were full of shit, and if you took them home, their dick wouldn’t swell up like a baseball inside you while they ejaculated over and over.

No, the real ones kept it kind of private. The genes only affected, in total, about two percent of the population, and declining by the day. There were some online dating sites for them, some in-person support groups, and then, of course, alphas could smell omegas. But it really wasn’t something people talked about with their presumably beta friends, so how exactly would Pete _know_ if his lead singer was…

The word was almost impossible to think in terms of _Patrick_. But a lot of things seemed to fall into place when Pete thought too hard.

Like, they played a show at a bar (Patrick and Joe let in through the back, because they were too young to go in on their own) and afterwards Patrick loaded up the band three amps at a time, the equipment towering over him.

“Dude, do you need a hand?” Pete asked. Patrick all but threw the amps into the back of the van and jammed his index finger into Pete’s chest.

“I’m managing just fine on my own, thanks,” he growled, and stormed away.

People didn’t have that kind of unseen strength. People didn’t just lash out like that out of nowhere.

Insane as it was, Pete was convinced that Patrick was an alpha.

“Hey.”

Pete woke up like he was rising up from underwater, shaking sound back into his ears as he blinked at Patrick in the darkness.

“You left your laundry in my room,” Patrick said. It was too late, or possibly too early, and Pete couldn’t tell what his expression was, but knowing Patrick, it was probably angry.

“Sorry?” Pete guessed.

Patrick dropped the heavy pile of t-shirts and jeans and foul smelling socks on top of Pete in the semidarkness.

“Cut that shit out,” Patrick said. “I put up with enough without your _scent_ all over my stuff.”

He slammed the bedroom door when he stormed out, leaving Pete with the smell of dirty laundry, and even more certainty than before. Because why would Patrick word it that way. He didn’t want Pete’s scent all over him?

Patrick, Pete realized, had to be an alpha.

But because there were fuckall ways to bring that up without getting his teeth kicked in, and Pete was rather fond of his teeth, he decided that it changed nothing and he was going to treat Patrick exactly the same as he did before he discovered Patrick was an alpha. They played shows, ate crappy pizza, and bickered just the same as ever, and Pete spent very little time thinking about Patrick’s dick.

He did, however, start thinking a lot about Patrick’s mouth.

It had nothing to do with his realization that Patrick was an alpha. It didn’t happen overnight. It just seemed that, slowly but surely, Pete started thinking a lot more about Patrick’s mouth. He grew out his awful high school haircut, and he and Pete went jogging together sometimes, building up lean muscles in his thighs and. Well. Pete was only human. Patrick was rapidly growing out of his nerdy teenage self into a pretty hot dude with a mouth that looked downright sinful.

“You have a really nice mouth,” Pete said one day, while Patrick was lying in his lap, hand halfway hanging into a bag of chips and sort of watching Star Wars on tv. Patrick looked up at him through his eyelashes -- _Jesus Christ_ \-- and twisted up his face.

“Thank you?” he said. “Um, that’s a weird comment.”

“No, I just mean,” Pete paused. “I mean, I bet they’d be nice to kiss?”

“You offering?” Patrick asked, then snorted and rolled over. Clearly joking, even though Pete would gladly have taken him up.

“Gonna make some girl feel reeeeaaal nice.”

“Gross.”

“Eating a girl out isn’t gross, Rick, that’s sexist.”

“I thought we were talking about kissing? And most oral is gross. I’ll still do it, but like. Kinda gross.” Patrick squirmed a little, his shoulder _waytooclose_ to Pete’s dick. God, he hoped he wouldn’t get hard right then. “Anyway, shut up, it’s back on.”

Pete leaned back, silently begged Patrick not to lean back onto his dick, and let out a huff. Stupid, pretty-boy alpha. Making Pete go and fall in love with him. That had to be it -- special alpha pheromones that made people around them get turned on.

Pete had heard of it, in fact. Alpha pheromones weren’t as potent as omega ones, but they affected betas too. That was why Pete was so turned on around Patrick, not just the once, but all the time, now.

He was turned on when he watched the muscles bunched in Patrick’s back while he carried amps, turned on while they ate takeout on the couch, and for fuck’s sake, Pete was hard while Patrick was singing onstage, practically swimming in his own sweat. Sweat wasn’t sexy, but all of a sudden Patrick’s was, and it had to be because every droplet of sweat that fell off the tip of his nose was loaded with special pheromones.

That definitely had to be why Pete kind of wanted to get down on his knees and beg for Patrick to choke him with his cock, the sort of urge that girl-leaning bisexual Pete had never before experienced.

So, Pete went home with girls immediately after shows, when he could, and when he couldn’t he got in a lot of quality alone time with his hand. And if he happened to be thinking about soft, swollen, pink lips salty with sweat that curved around the edges of Pete’s words better than Pete himself knew how to-

Well. He spent a lot of time muttering about _stupid fucking alpha chemicals_ while he cleaned himself up, too.

Gabe from Midtown was one of the rare alphas who never shut up about it, and he was complaining, as he often did, about hormone blockers.

“It’s worse than birth control,” Gabe whined. He was sprawled out, his ungainly limbs taking up all of Pete’s bed so that Pete was lounged on the floor, treating the piles of old clothes on his floor like a recliner.

“How would you even know that?” Pete asked.

“My girlfriend takes birth control,” Gabe said. “Not that she really needs it with me.” His girlfriend, a beta, got pregnant the old fashioned way, and women without the A/O gene almost exclusively got pregnant by other betas. “She can miss a night and probably not fuck everything up. I miss a night and I’ll be rutting up against fire hydrants like a horny pug.”

“I think you have a serious misunderstanding about dogs and fire hydrants,” Pete told him. Gabe threw a dirty sock at him.

“ _And_ it knocks me the fuck out. Worse than Benadryl, man, that shit is a sedative. No last minute plans late at night.”

“Would you ever go without?” Pete asked, passively curious.

“Oh, fuck that,” Gabe said. “I’d get fired if I had to keep quarantining myself during heat, anti-discrimination laws or not. Besides, kinda pointless without an omega, and I’m pretty happy with what I’ve got.”

Gabe leered, and Pete threw the sock back at him, just for good measure.

And for unrelated reasons, he checked the bathroom cabinet that night. No prescription bottles. Huh.

That is, except for the prescription bottles that were Pete’s, and were supposed to prevent nights like the one he was having at that moment, curled up on the kitchen floor with his arms wrapped around his knees trying so desperately just to breathe without his lungs collapsing under the sheer weight of being alive. At least, he thought, there was no one home to see him breaking down.

Patrick walked in the door seconds after Pete thought that, though, so perhaps he was cursed.

But Patrick didn’t ask him if he was okay. He didn’t do any of the stupid shit that most people did that only made Pete worse, asking what would help and fussing over him or anything.

Instead, he just sat down on the kitchen floor with Pete and started to talk. Pete didn’t really hear the words, but Patrick talked for hours, till his throat scratched, and at some point, Pete began to feel better.

And at some other point, he realized he was falling for Patrick in a way that had very little to do with his mystical alpha pheromones.

Pete knew he was in love with Patrick when Patrick held his hand through a panic attack and undid Pete’s laces for him at airport security because Pete couldn’t bend over, couldn’t even move. He knew he was in love with Patrick when he saw Patrick cooking pancakes and throwing an extra handful of chocolate chips into Pete’s. He knew he was in love when Patrick - tiny little thing that he was - lifted two enormous Orange Amps under each arm and loaded up the van in a flash when Pete said he felt skeeved out by the place. And he suspected, by the way Patrick laughed and blushed and said “You’re an idiot,” that Patrick felt the same about Pete.

“We should go out,” Pete said one day. They had finished a show and Patrick was dripping with sweat, stupid alpha pheromones making every ounce of Pete want to lick it off him in hot stripes.

Patrick looked up from the cords he was looping around his wrist with bright, shocked blue eyes. Pete’s heart stuttered an asymmetrical beat and his breath caught in his throat.

“Like, on a date?”

“No, like, to a park - yes on a date!” Pete said. Patrick leaned back, affronted.

“It was a reasonable question,” he said. “I didn’t even know you were - well, I guess most people like you - a date? With me?”

“Yes,” Pete said. “Um. Please? Or not. This doesn’t have to be weird if not, right?”

“No, but I want to go out with you,” Patrick said. “So there’s no question of weirdness at all. Pick Me Up Cafe, tomorrow night?”

Pete beamed so wide his face hurt.

“I’ll be the one in ripped jeans.”

The date was awkward. It was raining, and they had planned to walk down to the cafe together, so they made it on sopping wet. Pete knocked over the salt shaker and Patrick spilled milkshake on his shirt. By the time they were ready to go home, it was hot and humid enough that Pete was positive they would never get dry.

But right on their front stoop, in all the hazy streetlights, Patrick pulled him in by the collar and kissed him, and Pete was pretty sure it was worth it.

They dated blissfully through the summer of 04, going to Warped Tour hand in hand, making out in front of anyone who gave them dirty looks. They hadn’t fucked yet - part of Pete was afraid to, and part of him was convinced Patrick had never fucked anyone - but they had a lot of very passionate makeout sessions where Patrick would pull back, pupils blown, and say “You’re making me insane.”

My Chemical Romance thought they were the coolest thing that had ever happened.

“You guys,” Gerard said, “Are fucking legendary. Tell the bastards to suck both your dicks, am I right?”

He was drunk a lot, and he was something of a rowdy drunk, though according to his younger brother, that wasn’t just the alcohol.

“He’s an alpha,” Mikey said, not looking up from his comic book. “So he’s a little, ah, pushy. The problem is-”

“The problem,” Gerard repeated, draping himself backwards over the sofa, a look of absolute devastation on his face. “Is that I am a sub.”

“That’s a lot of information to give some random acquaintances,” Patrick said.

“I just want someone to tie me down and call me names,” he said. “But I’m an _alpha_ , and no one _wants that_.”

“I’m… sorry,” Pete said. He didn’t know such a thing was possible, and he cast Patrick a worried look. Pete kind of wanted Patrick to tie him down and make Pete choke on his cock, so he hoped that wasn’t their case.

“That’s rough, man,” Patrick said, and he cast Pete a worried look as well.

Later that night, Pete said: “Hey, I know we’re not there yet, but you’re not - not a sub, are you?”

“God, no,” Patrick said. “You’re not a dom, then?”

Pete grinned what he hoped was a wicked, teasing grin. “I’m definitely not.”

Eventually, they had to talk about it.

“I think we should fuck sometime,” Patrick said.

“Oh, thank God,” Pete all but screamed. “My balls are like the Arctic Ocean, man. Tell me when and where.”

“Eager,” Patrick said, his eyes dark and commanding. “We should probably talk about the, um, logistics first. We’re not like most couples, right? Is there anything I should… know about ahead of time?”

“Nothing weird on my end,” Pete said. “I should be… pretty average. But if you - you’re gonna be topping? Is there anything I should know about? I mean… I’ve heard about knotting, and is that… going to happen?”

“I don’t think so,” Patrick said, looking alarmed. “I mean, Jesus, does it happen to anyone that fucks you? My anatomy shouldn’t be able to change like that, right?”

“But, wait, doesn’t it?” Pete asked. “I mean, if I were an omega-”

“ ** _IF_** you were an omega?” Patrick repeated. Pete froze.

“Do you think I’m an omega?” he asked.

“You’re not?” Patrick said.

“No!” Pete said. “I- why would you think that?”

“Well, you know,” Patrick had one hand on the back of his head, looking sheepish as hell. “You’re so snuggly and, well, needy all the time, and you take all these pills, and you’re touchy with everyone, and sometimes you get all weird and-”

“I’m mentally ill and I take Ativan,” Pete said, dumbstruck.

“And,” Patrick continued. “You’ve got the pheromone thing! I get hard whenever I’m around you, and that’s not _normal_ , so I figured you had to be putting out weird omega pheromones!”

“I thought you were an alpha!” Pete cried. “I’m not- I’m just beta, dude!”

“You thought I was an alpha?” Patrick said, barely restraining laughter. “I’m - oh my god, dude, I apologize to pigeons I scare off the sidewalk.”

Pete was laughing too.

“You said you didn't want my scent all over your clothes! And you were the one putting out weird, sweat pheromones,” he said. “Why else would I be attracted to you when you’re all sweaty?”

“Yeah, cuz you smell gross as hell! And maybe it’s, like, normal sexual attraction?” Patrick suggested. “Maybe we’re idiots.”

“We’re definitely idiots,” Pete said. “So, to clarify, your dick isn’t going to triple in size when you’re inside me?”

Patrick made a face at the phrase “inside me,” but shook his head.

“No,” he said fervently. “And you’re not going to, like, go into heat and start leaking all over the bed?”

“Leaking?” Pete repeated. “Jesus, it’s good you’re not dating an omega, you’d offend them too much to fuck.”

“But, ya know, on the subject of fucking?” Patrick said.

“Let’s go have some awesome, all beta, all vanilla sex,” Pete said. And Patrick said: “I love you.”

And they lived (basically) happily ever after.

**Author's Note:**

> I also never thought I'd publish a crackfic on this account but here we are. Hope someone found this as funny as I did at three am.


End file.
